Friday, 31 August 2012

Well, it’s no surprise, really.Yeats had the same opinion about me.‘I’m not having you in the book of poems I’m editing,’he said.(I’m paraphrasing him. Call it revenge.)‘I’m not sure I like the way you write about war,’he said,(only he might have said ‘loike’,so you see,in lots of ways, we were different.)‘A bit too much suffering for my loikingand not what we’re looking for in poetry,’he said.(Oh, forgive me, Mr W B Yeats,for daring to mention the blood.)

And, now, here come Shropshire Council,borrowing from Yeats’ ideas.(Don’t they know that’s called plagiarism?)'We’ll just pretend that what he had to sayisn't as important as people thought,'they say.'We’ll just, while no one’s looking,pile up bricks and roofs and window framesin the apple orchard where he playedand surround his birthplace with other noiseuntil his voice is silenced,'they say.

(Gosh, I hate to point it out,you being wise councillors, and all,but it didn’t work for Yeats,and I don’t see your council documentson every exam syllabus....)

His river is the Thames.But today he sits beneatha black umbrellaas Mr Loteef, tired of forty-degree,fourteen-hour daysand sometimes navigatingby the moon,slowly carries him across.

'If God gave me wings I’d go backto my village and mark my father’s grave.'He tells Mr Colin he owns a plotof land, too small to feed his family.If he could buy two cowsthey wouldn’t have to livein Dhaka’s slums, but one cowcosts more than a year’s rowing.

At home in London,Mr Colin is staring at the moonthinking about small stepsand mankind.In one crossing he earns enoughto buy two cows.In Bangladesh, Mr Loteef makesa giant leap back to his village.

Gwen Seabourne is an academic specialising in medieval legal history, who has also published poems and stories in magazines and books, and on the radio, and has read at events including the Bristol International Poetry Festival.

Sunday, 26 August 2012

Following the deaths of more than 30 people at Lonmin platinum mine, David Subacchi offered a sobering start to the week with Massacre in Marikana.

And, after Waiting in Line with Kay Weeks, it was All Out Before Tea, as Abigail Wyatt, turned our attention to the busy fingers of Kevin Pietersen, the cricketer accused of sending vile texts.

E R Olsen’s Shield, Wall and Fortress provided a haunting reminder of the unrelenting ferocity of fighting in and around Aleppo, as rebels continue to take the fight to Assad’s forces.

From the prospect of social change through conflict, to the unappetising prospect of social engineering, as Michael Gove tinkers with the examination system. An activity that Mark Thompson sees as Education Deformed. Rose Drew ended the week, drawing our thoughts to gun control in the USA, with Now Back to You.

Last week, we asked you a question after one particular poet suggested, after having work rejected, “Do me a favour. Don't put in the web page you are looking for some work as you are getting short of stuff.” The poet in question went on to question our editorial integrity, “I think you are excellent at drawing attention to the situations and wrongs which occur in countries abroad, but show a reluctance to upset the upper classes of this country. I must add I am not alone in this opinion.”

Though, the dialogue ended with a positive statement, “I still believe you have a great web site and an excellent idea.” Well neither Clare or I would argue with that. I should emphasise at this point, our decision to reject the works, was based on the poet consistently failing to include a link to the story behind the poems, despite several requests from us.

So, having asked you, is it helpful to get a 'heads up' if we're low, or is it just annoying because we may still not use your poem, we waited for a response. As it turned out, we weren’t exactly overwhelmed, but Hamish Mack commented, “It's your blog, you run it how you want to. I would go for keeping to your submission rules, even if you are getting low, it keeps the playing field level (he said managerially). And the head-ups are good motivational tool for me.”

E R Olsen emailed his thoughts, “By the way, I support you concerning maintaining standards even when the supply of work is low. You’ll recall that I submitted something at that time, and I had every expectation you would maintain editorial integrity. Please continue to do so.”

It’s really helpful to get feedback from readers and poets alike. Whether it’s here, in the comments box, on our Facebook wall, or on Twitter @poetry24blog, we'd appreciate your views about the blog and/or the poems that we publish.

Rose Drew has hosted open mics for +9 years (www.yorkspokenword.org.uk) and co-owns small press Stairwell Books. She’s published in newspapers, books, journals, including her collection Temporary Safety (2011).

Friday, 24 August 2012

Tougher GCSEs for lesser employment opportunities plusTougher GCEs so fewer of us get to complete degrees.This is not root and branch reform - it is disease,That shows us pure scorn and should form dis-ease.Tories making things better? Oh stop... PLEASE!The web the media weaves may show all idle as slobs,But iKnow it's not only cos we lost SteveThat there's a shortage of jobs.There are too many people claiming sick pay they say,But true we know how they stay cos we nah forgetAnd though their PR is slick we ain't all thick... yet!They're screwing all but the top social categories,As dem feed our faces still, as ever,Bed-time con-stories filled with market based equality.In these times of economic bad weather which we witness,Surely only those who should be in mental nurseries still believeThat we are all in this... together!

Thursday, 23 August 2012

Shield, wall, and fortress of our nation. That’s what he called them -- his army. Not ever mentioning the others whose scent only wafts in his rooms, when a window is slightly ajar, but somehow know his every thought.

Shield, against the rays of sun that would creep in and light the dark corners that are never seen and never clean -- though the people hoped at first, when he dined in cafes on tea and cake, till the light in his doctor’s eyes changed.

Wall. Honecker’s wall -- one that keeps inwhen they say out, one you can hear cry bitte, min fadlik from cracking bricks, one blindfolded shoulders slump against because they knew it was time, or thought, , or simply could not wait another moment.

Fortress, where they will all be trapped, as each day the masons arrive with trowels, making sides too high for ladders out; and rescuers come to ram the gates, when the sounds die down and smoke turns white, then stare and wag their heads, as though they did not know it was happening.

Wednesday, 22 August 2012

Old boy, now it just isn’t cricket;
it’s not how we chaps play the game;
we don’t, as we say, like the cut of your jib,
or the way you court glamour and fame;
and a batsman, no matter how brilliant,
should know that he’s only one man;
his average may be under fifty;
even so, he should do what he can
to ensure that his side’s reputation
is neither besmirched or bemired:
a chap who wears ear-rings and doesn’t fit in
is a chap who just might be retired;
and, when a chap’s spotted in Brinkleys
it fairly well rankles with some
who, thinking the fellow a bit of an arse,
might not be disposed to keep mum.
We’re sorry, old boy, but you’ve blown it;
this time, you have come quite unstuck;
we can’t have you calling your team-mate a ‘doos’;
though we have to admit, it’s bad luck.
If only the word had been ‘nob-head’
you might have avoided all blame:
‘tosser’ or ‘wanker’ or ‘plonker’ or ‘dick’
are allowed in a gentleman’s game.
But, some things, old man, are not cricket;
and we fear that you must bear the brunt:
how dare you compare a team member
to something as foul as a cunt?

Sunday, 19 August 2012

Jim Bennett brought us back down to earth at the beginning of the week with the Olympic legacy - a perfect antidote to fine talk of inspiring a generation (and it's a generation on the move, says Noel Loftus in Passport Photo). And as the world's photographers pack up in London, E R Olsen wonders who else might be under observation in Drone.

But while we all go back to normal life, Fran Hill spared a thought for new lottery winners tossing and turning on That first night, thrashing out "the troubled what to do with it, / how to share, and who, with it". And thrashing in the shallow waters off West Cork, a stranded fin whale inspired Caroline Hurley's moving pantoun: Poor Brother Whale.

We finished the week with A Ballad of Blood from Sutanuka Banerjee - a visceral assault on the senses as riot begets riot in Assam and Mumbai.

A Question:

We have been told off for saying we were short of submissions two weeks ago by a poet who responded but wasn't chosen. Sometimes we have plenty of good poems in hand and competition is stiff. If the pot is getting low, we mention it to prompt poets to get writing news-related poems and generally get a response, which we are grateful for. But there's still a requirement to abide by our submission guidelines and link to a recent news item, and they will still have to compete with other poems sent in.

What do YOU think? Is it better to get a 'heads up' if we're low, or is it annoying because we may still not use your poem? Please answer in comments below.

Saturday, 18 August 2012

Riot against riot,Retribution for eternal assassination in an alien land.A flock of ousted canopies seeking a grain of sand,An inch of belonging to lay down their listless bodies.The body which sowed a sapling in the sleep,The seed will bear forth flowers,A stooping rhododendron of peace.Chunks of red clay lie littered around the caravans of global geography,Dead graves of faith, trust and hope.When the nation was split by sweat and blood,And soaked by shared rivers flowing amidst anguished territories.Retreating folks carry an oblivious history, shattered by jolts of fanaticism,A swooning stream of blue bile screams through mellow memories and shallow foliage.

Caroline's poems have been published in e-magazine, The Electric Acorn. She recently returned to post-graduate psychology studies and has also written a novel, short stories, and both a stage and screenplay.

Monday, 13 August 2012

Gracelessly, gluttonous years stole awayEuro by euroLegislate lightlyDo this in memory, pioneer for lifePrayer by prayerPontificate proudlyRobbed by degrees and by thieves armed with lettersEmpty houses by housesSchool prefabs are fineSee the next class prepped now for releaseOne little white faceBarely in frameTells a taleThat hope was frozen hereThat this little bird must fly

But is it all the Politics of Distraction? asks Abigail Wyatt when '... the field of dreams gleams gold no more / and doubt creeps into our heads'. And in all the Games fever, other news sinks lower in the headlines: like the New Zealand servicemen in Hamish Mack's thoughtful Two Dead in Bamiyan.

We finished with a poem about the fascinating underworld of the Eggplant Revolution from Lavinia Kumar. You will never look at Olympic flower bearers the same after reading this!

Right! I'm off to rustle up a poem about Tom Daley's budgie-smugglers. Keep yours coming too (poems, not budgie-smugglers) ... you may think it's a long shot or that you'll end up on the ropes, but the baton needs passing!

Thursday, 9 August 2012

You see a mind flashof the picture,sand and heat,blue sky and death.An instant of absolute quiettwo lives ended.Incomprehensible to thoseback here, and maybe evento the people involved.Who might feel as thoughthey are actors are pawnsbeing moved around.But not now.Now there is only loss,a numbness. Hate is the only thing,that will grow from this.Questions such as,"Should we be there now?" cannot be asked in the shock of their dying.Old Man Deathhas swung his scytheand urges usto silence.

Wednesday, 8 August 2012

What will we do when the flags come down
and the fuss is all over and done;
when the tears of pride have all been shed
and the last of the medals have been won;
and, when the cameras cease to roll
and the crowds all go home to their beds,
and the field of dreams gleams gold no more
and doubt creeps into our heads,
I wonder what will distract us then
from the very fine mess we’re in
since we’ve had the bloody Jubilee
and they can’t pull that stunt again;
and we’ve had the Royal Wedding, too,
and now it’s Team GB.
What next, I wonder: could it be
a right royal pregnancy?

Bob Cooper won 5 pamphlet Competitions between 1994 and 2000. He’s just won another and a Pamphlet will be published by Ward Wood later this year. His last full length collection is still available here.

Monday, 6 August 2012

Kofi Annan stepped into blood on streets,slipped and slithered between army and rookiefighters. He held his head high inside a securecircle of nations shooting spitballs across crushedbones, empty i.v. lines, children’s bodies in linen,all paraded on TV screens in spotless officeswhere men rested, in fresh shirts, on soft chairs,and moved chess pieces, snacked on fresh fruit.But Kofi Annan did not rest, he flew to Moscow,to Damascus, courted the Arab League, NATO,sent in a team of blue helmeted observers, talkednonstop with suits, heads in sand, minds blocked.He gave his all as he passed by bronzed thrones,silver dress swords, but only he was worthy of gold.

Sunday, 5 August 2012

As expected, we've had a couple of Olympic poems this week - beginning with Steve Regan's blistering attack on The Evil Games with its 'tarnished gold', 'rancid anthems' and 'being about /winning instead of the /important stuff of life, /which is mainly about losing.' Even Vala Hafstad's series of limericks The Animals' Olympics Report hinted at darker truths about marketing and one-up-manship.

For all our heroic aspirations, how sad it is, says Abigail Wyatt in Dark Days: a Reflection on Our Time, 'when the tribe no longer will carry its sick / but leaves them by the wayside to die' - a poignant poem inspired by a threat to disability and sickness benefits which has gone under-reported in the UK due to Olympic fever.

If this sounded like The Door to Hell - it isn't, that's in Turmenistan according to Craig Guthrie. But sometimes hell is a closed door, like those described by the ex-prisoners Lavina Kumar writes about so movingly in Just draw the sun on the wall.

What will we think looking back on all this? Noel Loftus has some ideas on that in Vision Twenty Twenty. But then hindsight is always 20/20 isn't it?

We're very low on submissions at the moment, and we're happy to have more Olympic Games!

Friday, 3 August 2012

jeered the prison guard, after our inmatestrike of twenty-two days for more sunlight. Released after twelve, eighteen, twenty, thirtyyears we stayed up all night to see sunrise,and colors – red shirts, skirts, flowers, green hills,trees, the beach, and blue sky, bicycles, sea.

Touch had changed. Smooth faces were wrinkled,a child left at two had his own of five,and we could turn a handle, touch a door,open it, shake hands with friends, a stranger,feel grass or sand under our feet. Butif your touch woke us up we’d surely scream.

News had changed. We became human beings.But we felt like strangers at home, with friends –except from prison. We were not heroes.TVs had remotes, shops self-moving doors. We had to learn to choose shoes, our own clothes,how to spend money, and fight the bad dreams.

There were no masks in prison, though we findthem outside. We could not lie to roommatesso we shared thoughts – we read books, learned to think,learned to read faces, words. And to seeliars in many of the world leaders.So we still resist now that we’ve been freed.

Thursday, 2 August 2012

These days the mornings grow darker and darker,
and I fear they’re growing harder too,
though the sun may sometimes consent to shine
and the small birds sing Te Deums in the trees;
still, the gathering clouds are deeper than doubt,
and the shadows cast are chillier and longer;
while the earth grumbles and stirs awake
as though some sleeping Titan quakes.

Perhaps I am old and disposed to sadness
since old age is the season for weeping;
a butterfly but crosses my path
and my heart will break in my boots;
but I think instead it is something else,
something like a loss of fellow feeling
when the tribe no longer will carry its sick
but leaves them by the wayside to die.